Bloodlust
by hyacinthian
Summary: Maybe God has cursed them. BlairChuck futurefic. Themes of suicide/depression.


She wants to hang herself with one of those gorgeous purple Hermes scarves he bought for her last Tuesday -

she makes a martini instead.

He's talking to the shareholders about the future of Bass Industries, and her hand shakes as she lifts the glass to her lips and drains it. She's been drinking gin straight since she was thirteen, so it does little to take the edge off of anything. She stares at her reflection in the vanity mirror, noting the angles of her pursed lips, wondering if God has somehow cursed them, cursed _her. _There's an empty room at the end of the hall, roped off years ago to serve a purpose she hasn't been able to set into motion.

(Dr. Saunders thinks they should stop; the IVF isn't taking.

Adoption was never an option. Waldorfs don't take anything secondhand; she would have been a _great _mother, she's sure of it.)

She's long felt the urge to purge, and she's been hiding it from him for months now. When she tells her staff she's going shopping, she pays the waitstaff at the Waldorf-Astoria to let her in through the staff entrance, binging in the kitchen and retching in the alleyway. It doesn't fill the void it used to. She doesn't even know where Serena is anymore - probably sailing on a yacht off Macedonia. Fallen out of touch is an understatement.

And she's always known that maybe someday it would have come to this. She's Blair fucking Waldorf, just like he's always been Chuck fucking Bass, and she's just as messed up as he is. And for all her talk of hanging herself, she knows if it came down to it, it'd be the razor. Quick and clean.

He comes in from his meeting just as she's pouring gin into one of his highballs. "A little early, isn't it?"

"It wasn't for you," she says, before she raises the glass, sardonic smile in hand, toasting him for his _celebrated _achievements.

He catches it and scowls. His hands are on her neck then, sliding down, his lips following, hot and wet against her pulse point. She jerks away and the gin sloshes onto the carpet. "Don't," she says, lowly.

"You used to love my touching you," he murmurs.

"Well," she says, with a cutting smile. "I used to love _you_."

"Don't be a bitch, Blair."

"Why don't you talk to, who's the new one this week? Is it Ilana? No, _Elena_. Wait. I never _could _keep track of them."

He flinches - a slight clench of the jaw. She knows she's won - she sweeps up her handbag and out the door. "Where are you going?"

She slams the door behind her. It's a little too late to play Prince Charming (he's never been one or wanted to be; it's all about control with them - control, control, control).

-

Apple cobbler, potato chips, hot fudge sundaes, cookies upon cookies upon tortes upon crepes.

The sous chef looks vaguely nauseous.

She feels it settle within her, the vague feeling of comfort that simultaneously accompanies self-loathing, and she's running towards the alleyway. Two fingers down the throat and out it comes. She retches in the alley.

She knows what Dorota would do if she were here - a "No, Miss Blair, we must call the doctor," and scolding whoever was to blame.

But car accidents are uncontrollable and Serena's god-knows-where.

(god, she needs dorota.)

The second time she retches, she can feel the familiar pull of pain in her chest.

-

She cleans herself up in time for the dinner party for the shareholders.

-

"What are you doing?" he says, after, when she's taking out her earrings.

"Going to bed."

"That's not what I meant."

"Well, maybe you should say what you mean."

He kisses her;

she bites his lip, tastes the iron in his blood.

"I love you," he says, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. "You know I do."

"You were the one who said this couldn't work."

"When we were in _high school_? Blair--"

The tears scald her cheeks.

"I need a cigarette."

She steps out on the balcony; he hears the flick of the lighter, times his steps with her sobs as he leaves.

-

She imagines how it would happen.

He'd come in to say something, find her in the bathtub.

_How long has this been going on_. That's what they say in the movies. _How long has this been going on._

She knows he'd never say anything. She shouldn't do this to him, she knows that. He's broken enough as it is. But she needs to do it for herself.

He's mastered scorn so well;

wear it until the end of his days.

-

She runs a hot bath, steam billowing from the water.

She adds her lavender oil, her bath salts, a few rose petals. She checks her hair in the mirror before she undresses; first, the headband. It's always been her trademark (Page Six credited her with bringing it back). She sets it on the counter.

She exhales shakily as she sinks into the hot water. Five minutes soaked, she takes the razor; one neat line across the left wrist.

He bursts in just as the blood inks out into the hot water; she watches its slow trails like squid ink, like a Rorschach she hasn't quite known how to respond to.

"You need to talk to me," he says.

She leans her head back against the tub in a feign of laziness; she feels woozy, lightheaded. "So talk."

"We can fix this," he says. "We were always able to."

"What?" she whispers, voice cracking.

"Us."

"You _know _what would have fixed us." And she didn't want to cry - she wanted it to be clean, like a Vogue photo shoot, her hair and make-up perfect, in a sea of red water against a ceramic white tub.

He catches sight of the water then and reaches in the water for her hands. She lifts them up and he sees it; the blood runs over his fingers to drip in the water. "Blair," he says, through gritted teeth. "You _stupid, stupid_--"

She props her legs up and closes her eyes as he's wrapping a towel around her wrist and pressing.

Despite her efforts to be strong, she's still crying - sobbing, and it's making her shake. She's _strong_, she knows she is. She exhales, and then:

"I would have been a _great _mother."

Somehow, through all of this, _Harold and Maude _rings in her head:

_for god's sake, maude, don't be melodramatic._

-

When she comes to, he's holding her right wrist in a death grip - her left wrist covered with gauze and bandages.

Her throat is dry but she rasps out, "Why?"

He kisses her dry lips; soft, tender kisses that make her think of middle school and summer vacation in the Hamptons with the Archibalds. Stolen kisses, even then.

He doesn't judge her. Just, "We were always going to be okay."

"How do you know?"

"Because we always have been."

And she's trying not to be a mess, but the tears are running fast and hot: "Chuck, I really wanted a baby."

He strokes her hair, "I know, I know."

"I don't know if I can do this."

"You're the strongest person I know."

She curls her fingers around his.


End file.
